


Legal Persons

by athena_crikey



Series: Songbird [6]
Category: Inspector Morse (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Gen, Morse is a sourpuss, Morse takes on a subordinate, Post The Dead of Jericho, Supernaturally Attractive, You're a good man Robert Lewis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 04:13:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12809379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: Songbirds were named legal persons more than a decade ago, but it’s still rare enough to meet someone who believes them to be people.





	Legal Persons

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a conversation with [Jemisard](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jemisard/pseuds/Jemisard) about, quote, "old songbird Morse being a grumble bum with young Lewis."

“What’s this about Lewis reporting to me permanently?” Morse blows into Strange’s office, a searing wind of indignation and fury, and pins the Chief Superintendent beneath a withering stare. Strange, irritatingly, fails to wither. 

“Should’ve thought it was straight forward enough, myself. You’re a chief inspector, Morse, you ought to have a bagman. Someone to do the legwork, act as your runner. In your case, someone to smooth witnesses down after your visit.”

Morse’s stares down at him, feeling blunt and bulldoggish and rough as a rusty saw. “Ha bloody ha. You know I don’t –”

“Play well with others?” finishes Strange, eyebrows raised pointedly. “Yes, I think we all know that. But Lewis has a good eye – he picks up on things. And he’s determined and hardworking. _And_ he’s good-natured enough that even you, Morse, should take some time to wear him down. An ideal candidate.” He looks down to the papers on his desk, making a pretense of shuffling them. Morse looks on, anger faltering towards desperation. 

It’s been years since he worked closely with another man – not since McNutt retired and he took his rank. He’s enjoyed the peace and quiet of those years, enjoyed not having to worry about his control slipping and ending up with an HR incident, or an unconscious subordinate, or both. 

“But –” he begins, almost pleading now. Strange finishes shuffling his papers and rolls right over him. 

“He’s yours, Morse, so you’d best come to grips with it. About time you started on passing on a few kernels of wisdom to the younger generation. Lewis is a good man – he’ll let you keep your private life private,” Strange finishes.

Morse glowers. When this has no effect he sighs, running a hand over his hair. “Very well. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  
***

The phone rouses him from a deep meditation on Ravel. Morse groans, the melodious tones of Pavane ruined by the shrill ringing. He pulls himself up and shuffles out into the hall, absently pulling his tie down from where it’s fallen over his shoulder.

“Morse.” 

“Sir? It’s Lewis.” The young man sounds far too energetic; it drives Morse further into his fatigue.

“What d’you want?” He pulls a hand over his mouth, stretching out his jaw, then glances at his watch. 9:35 in the morning. Christ. Too bloody early for dealing with the Lewises of the world. 

“Suspicious fire, sir.”

Morse scowls. “Well let Arson handle it – that’s their job.”

“Chief Super assigned you, sir. It was the Friendship Centre that went up.” 

“So?”

“Well, erm, I imagine he thought – well, vested interest, and all that.”

‘“You imagine he thought,’” repeats Morse, mockingly. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you you could get in trouble for putting words in the mouth of your superior officer, Lewis?”

“Sorry, sir, but – should I come pick you up?”

Morse sighs, leaning against the hall table as apathy replaces irritation. “No, Lewis. I drive myself.”

  
***

The Oxford Friendship Centre is, in fact, in Cowley. The name owes itself to funding provided by the University, and has just enough of a hint of Quakerism to it to put Morse’s back up.

“Mostly used by students, I understand,” says Lewis, as they stand outside the smouldering remains of the building. 

The Friendship Centre had once been the bottom of a two-storey brick house, the ground floor all knocked into a single open space, while the upstairs remained private dwellings. Now the brick is charred and blackened, the windows smashed and the front door lying in the street. 

“Suppose it makes sense, all those big government payouts in the 70s. They’d buy a grand education,” muses Lewis. His eyes slip to the Jag, and it doesn’t take much effort on Morse’s part to read the thought there: _Or a flash motor and a big house in Oxford_. 

“If you’ve finished your economic analysis, Lewis, perhaps we could have the facts?”

“Yes, sir. Residents overhead noticed smoke ‘round about two in the morning and called the fire department. By the time they arrived, the fire had already gutted the downstairs. Uninhabitable. Uniform have been door-to-door up and down the street, but it’s on the main road as you can see, so most people had their windows and curtains closed. Might get lucky with a passing motorist, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“Quite,” says Morse, dryly. “I assume the Society has noticed the damage by now?” he asks, repressing the desire to check his watch again.

“Yes, sir. Mrs Wainsbury is here, waiting to be talked to.” Lewis indicates a middle-aged woman in an unflattering fawn raincoat and a hat that looks as though an elephant trod on it. It only takes one look for Morse to classify her as a serial do-gooder. The chief inspector sighs, turning his back and looking to the heavens for support. Receiving nothing but Lewis’ concerned gaze, he turns back and walks over. 

“Mrs Wainsbury? I’m Chief Inspector Morse. I’m in charge of this investigation.”

“Of course, I know you inspector. Everyone in our circle does. One of England’s first success stories.”

Morse nods with false cheer. “Yes, ‘A Happy Ending,’ someone once called it. They left out all the parts that didn’t end happily, of course. And conveniently forgot the fact that it’s not quite over yet – at least not for me. But of course that’s the problem with sticking labels on things – they rarely cover the whole story.” 

Mrs Wainsbury deflates in the face of Morse’s cynicism. “It’s a vicious crime,” she says, bleatingly. “Cruel prejudice and – and bigotry.”

“No one was actually harmed, though – were they Lewis?” Morse looks to the sergeant – his sergeant, now.

Lewis shakes his head. “No, sir. Just the property damage.”

“I should think that’s quite enough!” exclaims Mrs Wainsbury. 

Morse glances at her, raising his eyebrows. “Insurance will cover it, surely.”

“I should think you of all people, inspector – as someone who makes use of our services – would appreciate –”

“What I do or don’t do is not at issue,” breaks in Morse in a loud, furious tone, behaviour so severe the woman shrinks back. Tersely, but with greater control, he goes on: “Arson is arson, regardless of the target. Or do you expect me to display my own prejudice in my job?” he asks. 

“No, of course not, but –”

“Good,” says Morse, cutting her off. “Now. Sergeant Lewis here can take down the particulars of your organization – hours, staff, regular habits, and so on. What I want to know is: had there been any threats beforehand? Odd letters, or phone calls, people stopping in who didn’t belong – that sort of thing.”

“No, inspector,” says Mrs Wainsbury stiffly. “We do on occasion get drop-ins who are there for the curiosity of it, but there’s nothing unusual in that.”

“Fine. Nothing suspicious recently, no idea who’s done it,” sums up Morse in a tired, unimpressed tone. Mrs Wainsbury purses her lips, giving no answer. “Alright. Lewis, finish up here. I’ll see you at the station.”

“Yes, sir.”

  
***

Morse is sitting back in his chair with his feet propped up on the desk listening to a melodious Boccherini string quintet on Radio 3 when a knock comes at his door. He opens his eyes, frowning, and feels his sense of self – the hard veneer he’s learned to wear over the years until it’s second nature – snap firmly into place. “Yes?”

Lewis pokes his head in. “Sir?”

“Don’t knock, Lewis, this is your office too. Or hadn’t Strange told you?”

“No, sir, I heard – I just thought… never mind.” 

He comes in, a file in his hand and a pencil tucked behind his ear. Morse gestures him towards the second desk against the wall, empty since he took possession of the office years ago, and Lewis pulls out the chair and seats himself. “There’s no word processor,” he says, looking at the desk top, which holds only a wire inbox and a mug with one lone half-used pencil in it. “No phone, either.”

Morse gives him a bland look. “Well sort it out, then. Use your initiative.”

“Right.” Lewis half stands, then sits down again. He pulls out his notebook and quickly scans over a couple of pages. 

“I got the answers you were looking for, sir. About the hours and the staff and all that.”

Morse leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling, answering laconically. “I wasn’t looking for them. That’s information you’ll need, if you’re to be any use on this investigation. I already know it.”

“From your – that is, um –” 

Morse rolls his eyes. “Yes, Lewis, from my ‘um.’ But if you want to keep that desk, you’ll keep it to yourself. I don’t need my personal habits becoming the talk of the station. Not more than they already are,” he corrects. A songbird in the police is still an anomaly, although no longer the inconceivability it had been twenty years ago. As such, he’ll always be grist to the station’s rumour mill.

Lewis nods, looking up from his notebook. “A bit harsh with Mrs Wainsbury, weren’t you, sir?” 

On the radio, the quintet finishes and the presenter announces some modern drivel; Morse reaches out and switches the radio off. He props his elbows on the desk and turns his eyes on his sergeant, taking on a lecturing tone. “When you become a popular cause, the world inundates you with soppy middle-aged women determined to do good unto you, whether you want it or not. Imagine being up to your ears in ninnies absolutely convinced that only by their good deeds can you survive, and knowing that you’ll have the same to deal with for the rest of your life.”

“Well they do help, surely? I mean, without the Friendship Centres, songbirds would have to go back to having keepers, or starve – those that couldn’t arrange something privately, anyhow.”

“Some of them help, Lewis,” explains Morse. “And some of them, like Mrs Wainsbury, are nothing but oversized drips.” 

“I see,” says Lewis slowly, sounding anything but enlightened. And then, face lightening: “Must be tough for you, having all this community support.”

Morse rolls his eyes. “Yes, thank you for that. Now get back to work: names, faces, anyone who’s been making a nuisance of themselves lately about songbirds.”

“Other than you, sir?” asks Lewis, cheekily. Morse glares.

  
***

In fact, like most hate crimes, tracking down the perpetrators is no all-encompassing mystery: the fools start up bragging about it almost immediately in their local pub, where two off-duty coppers happen to be having a drink.

“Going to interview them, sir?” asks Lewis late that afternoon as they stand in the hallway watching the two men – young, white, proud as peacocks and thick as bricks – being led into an interrogation room. 

Morse finds, very suddenly, that he doesn’t want to. He was tired of this case almost before it began, tired of the unwelcome reminder that he is and will always be other – as if he needed it after all these years of sniggers and whispers wherever he goes. 

Oh, it’s different than the old days. The outright prejudice, the assault, the insults straight to his face have stopped, more or less. Now that sentiment runs beneath the surface of society, like a stinking, putrefied sewer. And occasionally, someone comes along and rips off a manhole cover and lets some of the sludge stream out. 

“I suppose I am,” he says, tiredly. Lewis looks at him.

“You alright, sir?”

“Tired, Lewis. I’m tired.” He pushes off from the wall and walks into the small, cinderblock room to hear absolutely nothing he hasn’t heard before.

  
***

“Spoke to Mrs Wainsbury,” reports Lewis the next day as they sit together in what is now their shared office. “She says they’ve leased a temporary space down the road, until the repairs are finished. They’re open for business.”

“What a relief,” says Morse, with dry sarcasm.

“I’m sure it is, sir. People rely on it.”

 _People_ , thinks Morse. Not _songbirds._

Songbirds were named legal persons more than a decade ago, but it’s still rare enough to meet someone who believes them to be people. No matter their level of respect and sympathy, songbirds have remained something innately foreign in the eyes of most of the population.

“Up you get, Lewis,” he says, standing suddenly and catching Lewis’ odd look. He pulls his suit jacket on, and walks around his desk towards the door. “Let’s go.”

Lewis scrambles to his feet. “Go? Go where?”

“The pub, of course. Where else?”

END


End file.
